First Impressions
by smuffly
Summary: A two part story that sprang from the challenge set by 2NYwLove. In which we go back to the beginning and find out how Danny Messer spent his very first day at the New York Crime Lab. Featuring: Danny, Mac, Stella, Don Flack and Sheldon Hawkes.
1. Chapter 1

**FIRST IMPRESSIONS**

**This two-part story grew from the Challenge set by 2NYwLove. To avoid any 'spoilers' for the plot, I'll list the prompts at the end of this chapter.**

**Let's go back to the very beginning, shall we...?**

**-xx-**

**Part One**

_**"I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but first impressions are often entirely wrong." (Lemony Snicket, 'The Bad Beginning')**_

Mabel Augusta Bellamy rode the high speed elevator, humming 'America the Beautiful' as she did every morning. She was on her way to work, and work was a privilege. How many people could say they spent their day in one of the most famous buildings in the world? "You sell tacky souvenirs," her husband chided her, whenever he felt that her swollen ego took up far too much room in their relationship. "Like those guys on the street."

Mabel sniffed. Her sense of pride was impregnable. "Yes - but _eighty floors up_," she would always reply, folding her arms beneath her ample bosom, as though that fact alone was enough to justify, not only her career, but her whole existence.

The floors slid by. At 60, she had reached the end of the song. From 61 to 77, as always, she indulged in some hefty breathing, puffing (so Walter had once informed her) like a walrus with a head cold. Mabel paid not the slightest bit of attention to her husband's derogatory remark. The exercise raised the colour in her round cheeks, making her feel so healthy and invigorated that she spent the last few floors in a state of serene satisfaction - the perfect way to start the day.

When the door slid open, she stepped out, her shiny black stilettoes pounding on the floor like a military tattoo. _Left, right, left, right... _Lights on. _Left, right, left, right... _Cast a loving eye around her domain.

The gift store was a model of perfection; no, an extension of her soul, with its neatly ranged shelves, its pristine stacking, its proud commercialism and, above all, its glorious mock-Deco ceiling. Mabel Augusta looked up and sighed in delight - as she did every morning.

Then she looked down and squealed in dismay, as she saw the nasty, blood-stained corpse that was all set to ruin her well-ordered day.

-xx-

Danny Messer stood beside his Harley in the parking lot, staring at the ominous building in front of him and chewing his bottom lip. Most days, he liked to think that nerves were not his enemy, but today he was making an exception.

Today was - how did it go, now? Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

"Tell me what you were thinkin', Messer, you jerk," he accused himself; and not for the first time, either. "You're a cop, okay, and a good one, not some lab geek solvin' crimes with a test tube..."

There was still time to turn around, of course. O'Donnell had told him so. Had promised to welcome him back with open arms the moment this deal went bad. His faith in Danny wasn't exactly inspiring, come to think of it. "See you tomorrow," he had joked, and Danny had laughed at the time - but he wasn't laughing now.

It was still a source of great amazement that they had offered him the position in the first place. The head guy - Taylor - he had been a quiet one, keeping his opinion to himself at every interview, as the hopefuls around Danny dwindled, blown away by Taylor's stern gaze and the daunting trials that he put them through, until only two remained... and then one. _What did he see in me?_ the young detective wondered, and stared at the building again.

_I want to know,_ he decided, suddenly._ Know if I can do it - and why he thinks I can._

Danny squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and walked up to the front door. Assertiveness - that was his best line of defence. _Or should that be attack?_ "Act like you belong," he whispered to himself, as he stepped inside the converted warehouse that was the grim and slightly eccentric home of the New York Crime Lab.

-xx-

"I think you made a mistake, Mac," Stella Bonasera informed her colleague. Pressing her palms on his desk, she leaned forwards. Even if she hadn't been speaking, her body language would have informed him of her confidence, and her absolute belief in her current opinion. He admired her passion and, although he would never admit it, he also enjoyed their fights.

"I disagree. Get to know him, Stella; then you'll see what I saw. There's potential, I'm sure of it. He may act like a clown but we all have our defences. Look beyond the jokes - that's all I'm asking."

"You think I won't be fair to him?" She pulled back and stood up straight. Her tone was indignant.

"I know you will," he reassured her. "That's why I'm sending him out with you this morning."

Stella opened her mouth to speak again, but Mac held up a hand in caution as his well-trained eye had already caught sight of the man in question striding across the main floor towards his glass-panelled office, with all the focus of a gunslinger heading for a duel. "Play nice," he warned his colleague quietly.

"I'm always nice," she smirked. The flash of her green eyes dared him to refute the claim.

Reaching Mac's office at last, Messer jogged up the steps and knocked on the glass door. His expression was wary and he rocked on his feet - a nervous habit, Mac guessed, having noted it several times during the interview process. Still, he had to admire the man's cheerful grin, and the tilt of his jaw. A brave mask, worn to conceal his first-day jitters.

"Come in," Mac nodded. Stella stood off to one side, boldly studying Messer's every move, like some Ancient Greek goddess examining her latest hero. Mac began to feel a little guilty about his new colleague's first assignment - but the decision had already been made, and it was a logical one. In order to work well, a team had to work together. The Crime Lab was no place for dancing around people's feelings.

"Detective Messer, reportin' for duty," the young man said.

Mac kept things simple. Time enough for small talk later. There was a murder to solve and crime never waited on pleasantries. "This is Detective Stella Bonasera. You'll be shadowing her today."

"Okay." Messer nodded, his pale eyes sharp behind his glasses, taking in everything around him as he turned to give Stella a friendly nod. The smile that she offered in response was wary. "So," he asked her, "what's up first? A tour of the lab? Introductions? Find my locker, dump my gear...?"

The question had been aimed at Stella, but it was Mac who answered, relishing the quiet humour inherent in his reply.

"350 Fifth Avenue. Empire State Building. Eightieth floor."

Silence.

"That's a joke, right?"

"Not in the slightest." Somehow, he kept his face straight.

"Oh. Okay," Messer said hoarsely. "I get it. Start small..."

-xx-

Mabel Augusta was having a breakdown. A very loud, very public breakdown, right in the middle of Empire: The Store, between the crystal glassware and the 3D jigsaws. Two female officers tried to console her, exchanging nervous glances as her wails dissolved into hiccupping sobs. Her plump shoulders heaved up and down with every spasm. It was quite a scene. From beneath her sodden lashes, she could just make out Mr. Patreides, watching her. Her handsome boss was a kind soul, and her hopes were high for some tea and sympathy later. Or (if she was lucky) a stiff pick-me-up in his office - for purely medicinal reasons, of course.

The parquet floor was hard. Even with her generous padding, Mabel was starting to feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was time to rein in the tears and show a little dignity. Raising her blue eyes heavenwards, she drew strength from the bright ceiling that she loved. "Help me up," she demanded, and the officers obeyed. As her head rose above the shelves, like a breaching whale, she saw two more figures enter the already crowded store. A keen-eyed woman with expressive hair and, behind her, like a puppy at her heels, a scruffy young man with an air of excitement that was quite out of place.

Tourists, no doubt.

She frowned in confusion. Didn't they know that someone had just been murdered? Here, in her store?

Dabbing gingerly at her mascara, she was just about to launch across the room when she saw that the two intruders had already been accosted by another young man - the detective on the case. Now there was a good-looking fellow. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but those eyes - well, they certainly made up for his lack of refinement.

Mabel Augusta watched eagerly, waiting for the fireworks, her tantrum forgotten...

-xx-

There was something oddly familiar about the lanky, dark-haired cop who strode towards them. No time to follow the thought to its end, though. Stella had already forged ahead to greet him, and Danny leapt to keep up.

"Bonasera, right?" The man had a lazy, likeable grin. "Fallon murder, two months ago, yeah - can't forget_ that _one. Quickest turnaround I ever had. The guys at the one-two were spittin' with envy. Who's your friend?"

"Danny Messer," Stella said, "meet Detective Flack.

_We've met._

Ash and debris rained in his head, and suddenly Danny was elsewhere - running, focussed. Two red flashes and the world had turned to grey. He was trying to get there... to _help_ somehow, but the beat cop that stepped right out of the dust cloud - he wouldn't let him. Grabbed hold of him; told him the truth. _They're all gone..._

The memory shocked him and, for a moment, he couldn't speak. He wondered if the other man remembered. Probably not, he decided. That day still left Danny hollow. It was wrong to forget, but if he could - oh God, then he would in a heartbeat.

"Cat got your tongue?" Flack said jovially, interrupting his train of thought.

"Hey - no. How you doin'?" Danny held out his hand and then faltered. Was that even proper crime scene procedure for a CSI? Stella was watching him with a curious smile, but it was too late to pull back and his hand still hovered in mid-air. Sensing his confusion, Flack reached out in turn and shook it.

"First day on the job, right, Messer?" he muttered in an aside, before moving on with the briefing so swiftly that Danny was left to wonder if he had only imagined the comment. Maybe the altitude was making him crazy. That, or his nerves.

_Get a grip,_ he told himself. This Stella Bonasera was no fool, and she seemed pretty tight with Mac. If he didn't make a good impression, Danny guessed that he could be out on his ear before the ink on his contract was dry.

He tuned back in to Flack's rundown of the situation. "Body's over there," the detective said, waving in the general direction of a stand full of tiny ESB snowglobes, pencils, pads and other kiddie items - bright lures to wheedle pocket money out of sticky little fists. "We're guessing it was some kinda robbery gone bad. Details are a little fuzzy, though."

_A thief with a souvenir fetish?_ Danny wondered, wisely keeping the smart remark to himself. So far, Stella's sense of humour was a big unknown. Though Flack, now - he looked like a man who could stand a good joke. Or a bad one, come to that.

Stella looked around her in surprise. "How exactly do you break in to the _eightieth _floor of the Empire State Building?"

"And why?" Danny added. "I mean - you know, why not the bank in the lobby or somethin', if you're gonna break in anywhere at all? This has gotta be a first. What kind of dumbass robs a gift shop?"

"Maybe she's got a baseball cap collection and she just needed that one special item - you know?" Flack shrugged and Stella gave a quiet laugh.

_Noted,_ Danny thought. Sense of humour - check. Then he frowned. "I'm sorry - _she?_"

"Oh, yeah," Flack told them both. "One more thing. Our dead thief is a woman."

-xx-

"No ID," said the man from OCME. He knelt beside the body, glancing up at Stella with a serious face. Clearly, he knew her well.

"No kidding," Danny muttered. Three pairs of eyes swivelled towards him, and he hastened to explain himself. _Nice goin', Messer, you idiot._ "Well, look at her. That's gotta be a disguise, right? I mean, she's dressed like some kinda gothic cat burglar. Black all-in-one, lace-up boots, purple streak in her hair... I'm surprised she doesn't have a mask with little pointy ears. What is this, Hallowe'en?"

"Not for another three weeks," Flack said solemnly. OCME-guy didn't even crack a smile.

"The skin-tight suit is made from a fairly unusual fabric," he informed them in an educational tone. "And the boots have excellent grip underneath - look."

"Well, I'm guessin' she didn't get all this from her local costume store," Danny persisted.

Stella nodded slowly. "Custom made..."

"My thought exactly." They stared at each other in silence for a moment, re-assessing. "So," he continued at last. "Where d'you want me?"

"Fingerprints," she told him. "Start with reference samples."

Flack ticked them off on his fingers. "Building manager - that's him, standin' by the counter lookin' like the milk was sour in his coffee this mornin'. Name of Patreides. Night shift security guard for this level - he's waitin' in the manager's office. And see that tear-stained treat over there? She opened up the store and found the body. Good luck with _her_," he added emphatically, under his breath.

-xx-

Mabel Augusta watched as the young man sidled towards her. The lack of conflict between those two interlopers and that nice young detective had been a source of great disappointment, but here came a new chance for drama, with her as the star. She studied his pale blue eyes and his energetic frame with growing interest, and composed her features into a suitably woeful expression. Sympathy. Mabel would take it wherever she could get it.

"Danny Messer," he told her, reaching her side. "Detec... um, CSI." The letters stumbled on his tongue, as though they were new to him. Mabel didn't miss a trick.

"Oh, honey," she told him. "I'm so glad you're here. Such a truly horrible day - I'm quite overwhelmed." One hand fluttered at her forehead. "But, you know, anything I can do to help..."

_Still got it, Mabel,_ she thought smugly, as he flushed and cleared his throat.

"Um, ma'am - I just need your name and your fingerprints."

"Then you shall have them." She told him her name and then held out her hand to him, like a debutante claiming her escort.

He was smitten, she could tell. As he worked, he kept up the conversation. He seemed nervous but determined. _Poor little puppy, _she thought.

"Did you lock up last night?" he asked.

"You mean this morning? Store closes at 2am. Honey, by then I was tucked up in my bed, all cosy and warm. Lorelei Francis - she's a slip of a girl, no meat on her bones but sensible, if you know what I mean - she locks up, just as I taught her." Mabel winked. "I'm strict, but fair - always fair. Anyway, she won't be back in today, or tomorrow. She's off to visit her parents for the weekend. Rhode Island. Classy folks. You don't think..." She paused for effect, and her eyes grew wide. "No, I'm sure she couldn't have had anything to do with it. She's just not the type, poor dear. Far too..."

"Sensible?" the blue-eyed fellow offered, dropping her left hand and reaching for its partner. Mabel offered it daintily and nodded.

"Precisely."

"Anyone actin' suspicious yesterday when you were here? You know, like they were casin' the joint?"

"Isn't that rather an archaic term to use?" She smiled at him prettily, dazzling him with her stylish vocabulary.

"It's the one I'm usin'," he told her, flummoxed. "Think you could answer the question, ma'am?"

Mabel bristled. "No need to be short with me."

"Sorry..." He let go of her right hand. Was that relief on his face?

"I was doing my job," she said, in a cold voice, stepping backwards. "I'm employed to sell high class merchandise to my customers, not to suspect them of harbouring larceny in their souls. That's why we have security cameras."

"Right," he said hastily. "Thanks. Um - we're done now, I think."

"Good," Mabel said, and turned her back on him completely. What a waste of effort.

Now, where was that handsome detective?

-xx-

"She's a modern day gorgon," the manager said with feeling, risking a sideways glance at Mabel Augusta. Did he think that she could hear him? "Two more minutes in her company and you'd have been turned to stone. I try to keep my distance."

Danny held his tongue. It wasn't his place to comment - but all the same he listened, full of interest, as he prepared to take Patreides' fingerprints.

"Dreadful business, this," the man continued. "What do you make of it?"

"Oh, you know - too early to tell," was Danny's cagey reply. "Were you here last night - I mean, early this morning? When the building closed to the public?"

"I'm always here these days," Patreides sighed. "Got a pull-out bed in my office. This place is a millstone round my neck. So many problems - you've no idea, detective."

"I'm sure." Right hand - tanned, with a heavy signet ring and manicured nails. Oh yes, life was a terrible burden for Theo Patreides.

"Income, expenditure; the bottom line. Vandalism. Sexual harrassment charges..." He stared at Mabel again. "Security, publicity. If it's not one thing, it's another."

"Anyone break in before? I mean, in the last few months?" Left hand - just as plump, with a solid band of gold around the pinky.

"We've prevented several attempts this year. Two were caught in the lobby; one in a suite of offices down on the fortieth floor - corporate espionage, apparently - and one tried to make it all the way up to the observation deck, so he could... well, you know. Sad business, that. Anyway, they all failed, thank goodness." Patreides narrowed his dark eyes. "So then, you _do_ think this was a robbery?"

Danny shrugged. "We're exploring all possibilities." That sounded non-committal, right?

Stella came up behind him as he was finishing. In fluent Greek, she spoke to the manager - thanking him for his co-operation, Danny guessed. The language was elegant; beautiful, even.

They walked away together. Lost in thought, Danny fell silent. "You have a theory" Stella said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I got one. It's a little crazy, though, and probably wrong, so I'm not quite ready to share it," he admitted. "Besides, we CSIs are all about evidence, right? Not hunches."

"So Mac tells us, every day. Doesn't mean you can't go with your gut sometimes." Stella smiled at him. "Okay, Danny. Just remember we're a team. And you know, when you're ready - no matter how crazy it is, I promise not to laugh. At the crime lab, we like people who can think outside the box."

"Oh, that's me, alright," he grinned over his shoulder, as he set off in search of the manager's office.

-xx-

Jack McPharlane, the security guard, was a burly man of few words and even fewer facial expressions. He sat in a miserable heap on Patreides' couch (which had been folded up in haste, leaving a sheet corner still hanging out at the side). "Look," McPharlane said when the CSI entered, "I don' know nuffin, okay?"

"Okay." Danny smiled at him pleasantly. "Then this should be short and painless."

Like wet concrete rolling through a trough, misery slid into suspicion. The two were very similar, but Danny could just make out a fresh glint in McPharlane's eye.

"Painless? Wha' choo mean?"

"No one ever got hurt givin' fingerprints." Oh, this guy was unreal. Danny struggled to keep his own face straight as he pulled out the final tencard in his set of three.

"Wha' choo be wantin' my prints for?"

"To prove that you're innocent. We call them reference prints."

"Okay." The concrete slid back again. "I seen that on TV. Just so long as you ain't espectin' me."

"To do what?" Danny's brain was beginning to hurt. "Oh - you mean _suspecting_ you. No. Why - should we?"

Now it was McPharlane's turn to look pained, as he struggled with the question.

"I dun nuffin' wrong."

"Okay - nuffin' _wrong_... But you did - what, somethin'?" Suddenly, Danny was very aware that McPharlane had a holster at his waist, peeking out from beneath his jacket. When the CSI looked even more closely, however, he saw that it was empty - a fact that filled him with a mixture of relief and doubt. "Where's your gun?"

"I don' know," the guard said stubbornly.

"You don't _know._"

"Well, I frew it away, didn't I?"

This man was seriously challenged in the common sense department, Danny decided. Whoever employed him and gave him a gun in the first place also needed their head examining.

"An' why did you do that?" he continued, as evenly as he could.

To his horror, the concrete slid downwards this time, dragging McPharlane's features into utter wretchedness. Everything drooped - his eyes, his chin, his bottom lip...

"'Cause I did it," he moaned. "I shot 'er. That girlie. The catwoman."

And he dissolved into floods of tears.

-xx-

**End of Part One**

-xx-

**A/N: So, here are the four prompts that came with 2NYwLove's challenge:**

**The crime scene had to be the Empire State Building. Mac's Office also had to feature. Danny Messer had to be the star of the story and there had to be an element of assertiveness.**

**As I've never been to the Empire State Building, I owe a debt of gratitude to Google, the crime writer's best friend, and I hope that I didn't make any glaringly awful mistakes. If you've been there, and I did, could you please overlook them and hopefully just enjoy the story? Thank you!**

**The 9/11 moment with Flack that Danny remembers comes from Indelible. In case there was any doubt.**

**Hope you enjoyed Part One. This was going to be a one-shot, but it grew and grew, so I decided to split it. Part Two should be up in a couple of days. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**FIRST IMPRESSIONS**

**Part Two**

_**"But the truth is, it's not the idea, it's never the idea, it's always what you do with it." (Neil Gaiman)**_

Mabel Augusta Bellamy stood outside Empire: The Store and watched the body bag roll away, with a mild sense of regret that the drama was over and a silent observation that life, for some, was ill-lived and fleeting. Respectfully, she moulded her round face into a mask of compassion. That dark-haired detective was still around here somewhere, after all. Then she saw the uniformed officer with his roll of black and yellow tape.

"Excuse me," she said in a loud voice. "Where precisely are you going to stick_ that_?"

The question hung in the air between them, making everyone lift their heads and pause. Mabel began to regret her choice of words. The officer opened his mouth to reply, with a look in his eye that suggested he had a highly unsuitable comment in mind. Luckily for Mabel, he never got the chance to speak, as Detective Flack interposed himself neatly between them.

"The store's a crime scene, I'm afraid," he said. "Closed until further notice. But hey, that's a day off for you, right? Look on the bright side."

"Of murder?" she demanded, trying to rattle him and thereby recover the moral high ground. "I don't believe there _is_ one."

The detective frowned. Even with that pout on his face, she thought, he was a handsome young man - though he could certainly do with a haircut. Mabel had never been a fan of that long-haired, casual look; or those black leather jackets that seemed to say, _'Hey, I'm at work - but I'm cool, okay?'_ Ridiculous.

"I'm a cop," he said at last, "and the son of a cop. I spend my whole life studyin' the dark side of this city. So trust me when I say you always gotta find the bright side too. It's a question of sanity."

Which made her heart melt, of course. Clasping her hands together in a gesture of repentance, Mabel Augusta did the unthinkable. She apologised.

"I'm so sorry. How little I know of the real world and its brave knights, up here in my tower," she simpered.

Detective Flack appeared to be stunned into silence by her noble words as Mabel continued relentlessly.

"Well then - I seem to be available for the rest of the day. If there's anything else I can do for you... any details I remember... Why don't you leave me your card?"

Maybe it was her imagination but she could have sworn that, for a split second, there was a look of panic in his eyes. When he replied, however, his voice was steady and his smile was polite.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Bellamy - I don't have any on me right now. If you need to contact me, you'll have to call the precinct."

"Very well, Detective," she said coyly. "I might just do that..."

-xx-

"So, Jack the Night Guard shot a robber." Stella folded her arms and studied Danny Messer carefully.

"That's what he says." Danny shrugged, and tried not to think too hard about the quivering wreck that he had just left in the less-than-tender care of two officers from the twelfth.

"End of story?"

"No," he said boldly. "Not by a long shot." This was a test, right? Okay then - just let her see if she could catch him out...

Stella nodded. "Go on."

"Fact One. It was dark - but the guard had a torch. Was the girl armed?"

By way of a reply, Stella held up a see-through evidence bag. Inside was a plastic model of the very building that they were standing in. A _gun_-sized model...

"You're kiddin' me..."

"No," Stella told him, "I'm not. I found this inches away from the body. And, as _you_ said, it was dark."

"Oh, I get that maybe the guard mistook it for a gun. I found _his _piece, by the way, in the nearest men's room. Dropped in the cistern - can you say 'original'?" Danny chuckled, warming to his subject. "No, I'm just wonderin' why she picked up the model in the first place. And why she broke into a buildin' like this with no means of defendin' herself - leadin' us neatly into Fact Two. Somethin' hinky's goin' on here."

"That's not a fact." Stella shook her head, making her curls dance. It was strangely hypnotic. Blinking, Danny persisted.

"Tell my gut," he said pointedly, taking her back to their earlier conversation. 'Cause it's screamin' 'inside job'. That's my theory, okay?"

She winced. "What - the lovely Mabel?"

"Or her boss. Or anyone else that works here. It's a big buildin', Detective Bonasera." His pale eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

"Call me Stella, okay? And yes; thank you, Danny - I'd already noticed that." Her tone was brisk, but friendly.

"Got you thinkin', right?" he grinned.

"I'm always thinking," she retorted, cutting off any reply with a wave of her hand, as the building manager sidled up to them.

"Case over, then," he commented, with visible relief. "Business as usual?" Just like Mabel Augusta, he eyed the yellow tape that had now been stretched across the entrance to Empire: The Store. His greedy expression was irksome and highly inappropriate.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Patreides. Not just yet. Not until we've answered every question," Stella explained. The manager stiffened.

"Pardon me for misunderstanding, Detective Bonasera. I certainly didn't mean to imply that the financial well-being of New York's most famous landmark was more important than proving what we already know - that McPharlane did his job."

_Of course you did,_ Danny thought. If this was a cartoon, the manager's eyes would have turned into dollar signs by now. 'Famous store becomes crime scene overnight.' Talk about publicity value...

But was that a motive? Much as he wanted to suspect Patreides, it didn't seem likely.

Danny narrowed his own eyes and tried to psych the man out with a hard stare. To his great disappointment, Patreides didn't even look his way but kept his gaze focussed entirely on Stella, who was completely unfazed by his clumsy attempt at sarcasm.

"The Statue of Liberty," she offered smoothly. In this battle of false politeness, there could only be one champion.

"Excuse me?"

"Surely the Statue of Liberty is New York's most famous landmark."

"Or Central Park," Danny added helpfully. _I think I like this woman..._

Stella nodded, clearly relishing the greedy manager's discomfort. "Exactly. Now then, Mr. Patreides. We still have a lot of work to do - _if _you don't mind...?"

And she ducked beneath the tape, heading back inside the store. With a grin, Danny followed, leaving the manager standing in the corridor alone, his mouth flapping open and shut like a guppy.

-xx-

It was mid-afternoon before they returned to the crime lab. The young man bounded through the door ahead of her and then, remembering his manners, reached back suddenly to hold it open and let her pass. The gentlemanly act was unexpected, and she smiled. "Thank you, Danny. Good to know that chivalry isn't dead."

"Nope - but Catwoman is," he quipped. "I mean... sorry, that was disrespectful, right? I should call her 'the vic'."

"You should call her 'the victim'," Stella said primly. She counted a couple of beats, enjoying the look of dismay on his face. Then she gave a merry laugh. "So - you want to take Catwoman's catsuit? The M.E. should have removed it by now. I'll make a start on the evidence from the store as soon as it's been logged in."

Danny stopped in his tracks and stared at her. _That's right,_ she thought. _If you're going to make assumptions, don't be surprised when people challenge them._

"M.E.?" she prompted. "That way. Just follow the signs."

"Okay. Thanks," he breathed, and scooted off in the general direction indicated by her nod.

"Well?" said a calm voice behind her. Instead of turning, Stella raised her eyebrows.

"Next time you sneak up on someone, Mac," she said, "you should do it to the new guy."

"Noted. How did it go on the eightieth floor?"

"He's good," Stella had to admit. "Far more disciplined than I expected."

_If you're going to make assumptions..._

She blushed, and turned to face her colleague. To his credit, Mac didn't push any further, content to seek the rest of his answer in her expression. "You sent him to Autopsy," he said, as they both watched the flustered young detective pause, change direction and disappear round a corner.

"I did."

They shared a look of amusement.

"Well," Mac commented, "nothing like throwing him in at the deep end."

"Says the man who sent him to the Empire State Building for his very first crime scene." Stella tried - and failed - to deflect her guilt since Mac was unmoved by her accusation. A wicked little smile hovered on his lips as she continued. "The question is, will he sink or swim?"

-xx-

Unlike the bull-pen, which was vast and full of light, the M.E.'s domain was tucked away at the far end of a series of ugly, functional corridors. Pipes ran overhead, bearing goodness-knows-what to goodness-knows-where. Danny followed them hopefully, passing strange, old-fashioned rooms that looked more like sets from a '60s spy movie. These were science labs, of all things; worn-out spaces gifted with a new lease of life, their cracks concealed by shadows and technology. If this warehouse was an old dog, it had certainly learned some new tricks, as the signs attested. 'DNA', 'Toxicology'... Danny peered through each window in turn, trying hard not to stare but eager to discover what kind of looking-glass world he had really entered. What he saw were people hard at work - a blond-haired woman bending over a microscope; a sandy-haired man sitting calmly behind his desk, making notes.. Okay, so maybe the building was old and weird, but the people inside - well, they were his kind of people, Danny began to realise. It was in their body language, clear as day. Dedication. The _only_ way to approach this job.

Maybe that was what Mac Taylor saw in him...

The very last corridor brought him to the morgue itself. Plaster walls gave way to ivory tiles, outlined in black. "Cosy," Danny muttered, pushing through the door. "Real cosy." Cold air wrapped itself around him, chilling his bones, as if to emphasise the irony of his statement.

"Thank you," said a friendly voice. "I try."

Now he really had stepped back in time. The room was practically Gothic, with its pillars and its claustrophobic arches. A vault of the macabre, off-set by the cold, hard gleam of metal - tables, instruments, lockers... He chose not to think about what was in_ those_.

"First time in Autopsy?" the voice continued.

To his chagrin, Danny was forced to nod. He stepped a little further into the room, weighing up the man who stood before him.

"You were at the scene," he observed.

"That's me. Sheldon Hawkes." The M.E. grinned. "And you must be the new guy. I'd offer to shake your hand, but..." The shrug was unnecessary. Right now, Hawkes was up to his elbows in some poor young woman's chest. Disconcerting, and oddly compelling. Danny stepped forwards again.

"Hey, no problem. My name's Messer, by the way. Danny Messer. That our vic?"

Hawkes nodded. He was a neat man. Every movement was well-defined; a characteristic that made his compact frame seem larger. His face was solemn but there was a spark in his eye that appealed to Danny. Not humour, but rather a dry appreciation of the absurd.

Probably just as well, he thought, given Hawkes' occupation.

It wasn't until the M.E. spoke again that Danny realised his mouth was hanging open. He shut it with a snap. _Stop catchin' flies, Messer. You look like a rookie. Get on with the job._

"Here for the clothes?" Hawkes prompted, pointing with his elbow.

"Oh - yeah, thanks."

"You'll find fingerprints there too, and DNA. That last one goes to Jane, down the hall."

"Blond lady?" Danny said, juggling with the pile of evidence. "Yeah, I saw her."

Heading back towards the door, he paused in grim fascination as Hawkes reached for a giant pair of cutters and started to crack his way through the victim's ribs.

"Hunting for the bullet. Tell Stella to swing by in an hour for my initial report," the M.E. said, glancing up from his task with a tiny, knowing grin at Danny's expense.

"Oh. Um, sure."

"Good to meet you," Sheldon hinted. A diplomatic way to stress that the visit was over.

"You too." Danny hooked the door-handle with his little finger and used his foot as a wedge until he had passed through safely with his burden. The soft 'thud' of the door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the chill of the morgue, was a huge relief.

-xx-

"Multitasking?"

Stella appeared at his shoulder, making Danny jump. Was that how it went here? People sneaking up behind you to check on your work when you least expected it? Or was he just so focussed that he hadn't heard her footsteps? Sneaking a look at her feet, which were clad in smart black high-heeled shoes, he had to admit that it was probably the latter.

"Oh, you know," he said, turning to grin at her. "First day. Gotta make a good impression..."

"It's quality we strive for here," she informed him. "Not quantity."

"But speed helps, right?" He gestured to the nearby computer screen. "Fingerprints are running so I thought, you know, while I wait, I'd get on with processing the catsuit and the boots."

"Okay." To his great relief, Stella nodded, apparently satisfied with his halting explanation. Folding her arms, she went on. "I just heard from Flack. He seems to think there's something missing from your friend Jack's story."

"Not my friend," Danny said with feeling. "What kinda somethin'?"

"He's not sure. Says the guy gets shifty when it comes to the part about hiding the gun. Nothing specific, but he can't help feeling that the whole thing is..."

"Hinky?" Danny suggested slyly.

Pretending to ignore the word, Stella leaned forwards and studied the suit. "So - what have you got for me?"

Down to business. _I can do that,_ Danny thought. "Neoprene," he said. "I kid you not. Also known as polychloroprene. This chick was strollin' around in the middle of the night wearing nothin' more than a wetsuit."

"They make clothes from it too, Danny. Neoprene's no stranger to the catwalk."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know about that." He shook his head. "When I look at supermodels, it ain't the clothes I'm focussin' on, if you know what I mean?" Stella's gaze was withering and his voice tailed off. Okay - wrong person for that particular conversation. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "It's thin, but it's flexible and highly resistant to all kinds of dangerous stuff - not countin' bullets, of course, but still - a regular super-suit. Which reminds me; I also found this..."

Enjoying the tiny moment of suspense, he picked up a hand-held UV light and ran it over the costume, revealing a single glowing letter just above the chest. "M," Stella said. "Like James Bond?"

"Or Marvel," Danny smirked. "Beats me. This case just keeps gettin' weirder and weirder."

"No other hidden marks?" she asked, as the nearby computer let out a cheerful beep.

"Not one." Together, they crossed the room and studied the timely fingerprint match.

"Madeleine Harrington-Lane," Stella read out loud.

"M." The comment was unnecessary, but he couldn't help himself. "Coincidence? Maybe we just found our superhero's alter-ego."

His colleague regarded him levelly. "Danny. You do know there's no such thing as super-heroes, right?"

"Are you bustin' my bubble, here, Stella?" Matching the twinkle in her eye with one of his own, he continued. "I do think I'd like to know more about this 'Madeleine', though. Wouldn't you?"

Stella reached out and rattled her fingers on the keyboard for a moment. Images flashed across the scene, overlaid, all at once, by a small rectangular box containing two little words. 'Records sealed.'

"Oh, now, that's just not fair," Danny sighed.

"And very suspicious." Frowning, Stella stared at the screen for a moment and then straightened up, her whole frame tight with determination. "Finish up with the catsuit, okay, Danny? This one's on me. I've got an idea..."

-xx-

"I know I'm an ex-Marine, Stella," Mac said, standing beside her on the high metal walkway and gazing out over the bull-pen. "But that doesn't give me an all-access pass to our nation's secrets."

"I thought there was no such thing as an ex-Marine," she countered swiftly. "Besides, you're also the head of the New York Crime Lab. This woman is dead and we need to know why. Her past may have something to do with it."

Mac kept his voice calm. "I know that. And I'll see what I can do. But I can't promise miracles."

"So you say." She paused, watching Danny's foreshortened figure as it passed below them. "He thinks it's an inside job."

"Is he right?"

"It's a strong possibility." Once again, she paused and then made an admission. "My gut's telling me the same thing, Mac."

"But the gift shop?"

"I know. That's the strangest part. Why risk so much to break into a place that sells trinkets and T-shirts?" Stella shook her head.

"Keep searching," Mac said. "I'll do the same. If I find anything, I'll let you know."

Thanking him, she turned and headed back down to pore over the evidence from Empire: The Store. As she worked, one greedy face stayed uppermost in her mind. She was right; she knew it. But how to make it all fit together...?

-xx-

Theo Patreides sat at the table alone. His dark eyes shifted round the room, but there was nothing much for them to settle on. Just four grimy walls, a door, a mirror - two-way, of course - and a chair, directly opposite. Nothing to take his mind off his nerves, which were probably screaming inside him by now. The room was designed that way, and the psychology behind the setting worked wonders when it came to loosening reluctant tongues. Theo managed to keep his face straight, but a single line of sweat ran down from his temple, tracking the line of his jaw and coming to rest on his highly starched collar, before spreading out through the fibres of his shirt.

Flack watched him through the window, studying him carefully. "Guy thinks he can hold it together," the detective remarked to Danny and Stella. "But there's a guilty conscience in there. Guilty of somethin', anyway. You sure about this?"

"Oh yes," Stella nodded. "We're sure." She shared a smile with Danny. Flack was pleased to see it. _Look at that,_ he thought. _The two of them, actin' like a team already._ Mac sure knew how to pick 'em.

"Join me?" he offered. Stella shook her head.

"Let Danny. It's his first case, after all." She turned to her colleague and handed him the file that she was holding in her hands. "You've done this before, right?"

"Oh, yeah," the young man grinned, his eyes flashing with glee at the unexpected opportunity. Flack felt himself being lifted by Messer's enthusiasm and he rubbed his hands.

"Okay, then. Here we go."

-xx-

And just like that, they were inside. Danny hadn't been lying - he _had_ done this before; but never as a CSI, with his hands full of evidence gathered together by him and his brand new team. Seeing the whole thing through from beginning to end... it was exhilerating.

_Careful now,_ he told himself. _Stay cool._ No place for hot-heads here. This was a good day's work, and the pay off was just around the corner.

All that lay between them and the truth was Theo Patreides. Danny almost felt sorry for him. Almost - but not quite.

"Madeleine Harrington-Lane," Flack began, sitting down as Danny laid a picture of the dead intruder out on the table in front of their suspect.

Patreides nodded.

"I saw her this morning. Why am I here?"

"Patience, Mr Patreides," Danny advised in a genial tone that did not match the sharp look in his eyes. He set down another piece of paper - Madeleine's background, released from its virtual vault by some neat manoeuvring and calling-in-of-favours on Mac Taylor's behalf. Once more, Danny adjusted his opinion of his new boss. The man was unstoppable.

"Turns out our girl has quite the active past. From Girl Scout to Navy SEAL in ten years - and then she gets kicked out for..." Flack peered down at the sheet. "'Questionable moral conduct'. That's a fancy way of sayin' 'light fingered', in case you were wonderin'."

"I wasn't," Theo Patreides muttered sullenly, twisting his signet ring and pouting. "I'll ask again, gentlemen - what am I doing here? I don't know this woman. I'm not an ex-Navy SEAL, for heaven's sake, or a thief. And I certainly wasn't a Girl Scout. What makes you think that our paths ever crossed before today?"

"Just this." Danny laid down a tiny piece of evidence. "We found it in your desk drawer."

"You searched my office?" Patreides' voice rose into an horrified shriek as he stared at the business card in front of him.

"Well - not me personally. But my colleague did. Your secretary, Glenys; she was keen to oblige when she saw the warrant in Detective Bonasera's hand."

Flack reached out and picked up the card. With a nonchalant air, he read it aloud.

"'MaHaLa Enterprises'. That's a bland kinda business statement, don't you think? Covers a multitude of sins. So we kept on diggin'. You know, 'cause that's what we do." His smile was lethal. "Turns out you hired this woman yourself, to break into your building. The Empire _State_ Building. Even set it down in your list of expenses. Madeleine Harrington-Lane. That's quite some fee she commanded."

"Okay. _Okay,_ that's true." Patreides' face was bright red and the sweat was pouring from his forehead by now. He clenched his fingers tightly; a physical manifestation of his internal state. "But I didn't hire her to steal anything. That's not what she does; not now. She's more of a... well..." He faltered. "A consultant."

"All those break-ins." Danny leaned towards him. "They were eatin' away at you. Bad publicity, threats to your precious profit margins. So, when you heard of this woman - how did that happen, by the way?"

"Friend of a friend," Patreides whispered sullenly, resigned to his fate.

"When you heard of Madeleine Harrington-Lane and her unique 'enterprises', you hatched a crazy plan and hired her to break into the Empire State Building. On purpose. Legit or not, no thief worth her salt would ever be able to resist a challenge like that. I'm thinkin' she had to bring you some kinda souvenir?" Like a conjurer, he produced a photograph of the plastic model.

"So what? Surely it's no crime to run a security test? Madeleine was supposed to find the flaws and help me fix them. Make the place impregnable. My God, she made it all the way up to the eightieth floor..." He stared at the two detectives, pleading with his eyes.

"You're right - that's no crime. But covering the whole thing up..." Flack slammed his hand on the table, making Patreides jump. "Dammit, you were prepared to let your own guy take the fall for an accident that was entirely _your _fault."

"You should have warned 'em, man. The security guards." Danny frowned.

Patreides squirmed in his seat and mumbled something about a 'fair test'.

"Oh yeah," Flack scoffed, "that's all very well. But along comes poor Jack McPharlane in the dead of night, just doin' his job, when he sees what he thinks is a perp with a gun - so he fires."

"And when he comes runnin' to you... you swear him to silence and tell him to hide the gun. Even ditch it for him. We found your fingerprints inside the cistern. Don't tell me cleanin' toilets is part of your job description." Danny shook his head. "Worse than that - you bribe McPharlane to keep your good name out of it completely if he's discovered by the cops."

"Not what I'd call money well spent, since he started singin' like a birdie when he heard we'd brought you in," Flack confided.

Patreides looked sick.

"Test over," Danny told him, folding his arms, all the cards on the table at last.

"You lose," Flack added.

-xx-

Standing in Mac's office for the second time that day, Danny felt a sudden sense of cheerful belonging.

"Good day?" his boss asked quietly.

"I'd say it ranks right up there in my top ten," the young man admitted.

Mac tilted his head and observed him thoughtfully. "They're not all like that, you know. The cases we take. Some of them - well, they linger." His fingertips brushed lightly across a pile of folders in his in-tray.

"Then you're sayin' I got lucky?"

"With your case. Not with your work." Mac's smile was enigmatic. "Seems you managed to convince Stella. She was quite impressed." He held out his hand. "Welcome to the team, Detective Messer. Oh - and one more thing. Tomorrow you're working with me..."

_Bring it on,_ Danny told him silently, grinning with irrepressible delight.

-xx-

Mabel Augusta Bellamy stood in the high-speed elevator, humming 'America the Beautiful'. She was slightly off-key today and that bothered her - but after all, yesterday had been _so_ stressful. She was bound to feel the after-effects for a while; just as she had informed Walter when he brought her supper to her on a tray last night. But the tales - oh, the tales she could weave for her customers, now that Empire: The Store was open again and things were back to normal.

The loss of Mr. Patreides was a blow, of course. Such a handsome face to look at every day. But she still had the memory of that nice young detective, and the telephone number of the twelfth precinct tucked neatly inside her handbag.

Day-dreaming took the place of her breathing exercises, just this once. _But a happy mind is a healthy mind,_ she told herself firmly, inverting the proverb to suit her own infallible opinion. Stepping out of the elevator, she marched up to the tape and yanked it down with a vigorous display of contempt. Then she turned on the lights and surveyed her domain. The Crime Scene Clean-up team had worked their magic, it seemed, and the whole place looked as good as new. Better, even.

Mabel folded her arms beneath her ample bosom and gave the benevolent smile of a queen on her throne.

Open for business.

-xx-

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews for part one of this challenge fic (especially your response to Mabel Augusta)! I hope you enjoyed the conclusion. Setting my story pre-season one was far more fun than I could ever have anticipated. Maybe I'll do it again some time...**

**Oh - and Mahala? Debt paid...  
****(For an explanation, any interested parties should seek out "Sid Hammerback and the Curious Case of the Dormouse and the Hat!" by the aforenamed writer. Let's just say we had a little side-challenge going on...)**


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